Conditions
by JackOwens1860
Summary: A wave of terrorist attacks hits Gotham and it is taxing the GCPD to its limits. As Batman and Robin step in, tensions at home and work begin to rise... Bruce's P.O.V for HALF the story, Dick's P.O.V for the finish. Read and Review
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: My job in the real world demands many of my hours and is highly secretive in nature. Although unable to post any new stories in recent months, I have been working on several in anticipation of being able to share them with you, the reader. I have selected the best of around twenty-five stories to post today and hope you find it to your liking. I would appreciate reviews, however they are not mandatory. Since a brief outline of content is always a smart idea, let me begin:**

**Set after the events of my other story, Details, (Not neccessary to read) the dynamic duo are facing an assault on Gotham from many different fronts. Terrorists now use the city like a playground to demonstrate their explosive capabilities and have no reservations about dragging civillians into the firing line. The Batman is about to be tested. Bruce Wayne is about to be tested. Dick's relationship with his mentor is about to be tested. Welcome to the jungle...**

**Conditions**

It is late Friday evening. I have been home for approximately forty minutes. We are at the dinner table. Alfred is in the kitchen, preparing the dessert course. The boy and I are alone. Dick detests this level of formality and decadence. He does not like having to dress for a meal. He considers the practice of eating a certain course with its corresponding cutlery out-dated, even absurd. But he conforms. He has developed impeccable table manners for an adolescent of his character. His choice of dress is both appropriate and tasteful for the occasion. He knows how to eat and with what implement. He is the perfect dinner guest. His adaptation to this life is impressive.

I am wearing a freshly-pressed Italian suit and white satin tie. Amazingly the boy selected these items, with Alfred's assistance, for a birthday present. I try to wear them at least once a week and not exclusively at the house's dinner table. I know Dick enjoys seeing me wear them; he was very proud of his selection. I admit, they are very much to my liking. The boy's efforts for the occasion are also commendable. Although still refusing to wear a tie or suit to my father's table, he has gradually become more formal. His dress for this evening is a French dress shirt, plaid sweater-vest, black slacks and brogues, something he has no doubt put great thought into. The combination looks good on him. Again, he demonstrates a maturity and understanding beyond his years. He is the perfect dinner guest.

During the starting course, a lobster and crab cream soup with croutons, we discussed his school life. Without talking with his mouth full, or saying anything inappropriate for the dinner table, Dick told me his grades in both French and Spanish are improving. He informed me of his intense dislike of his English teacher, Mr. Pullman, whom he described as 'the most boring, uninterested loser' he has ever met. He was also eager to regale me with his cruising victories in the one-hundred-metre race, the four-hundred metre race and the high jump at the inter-state school athletics competition. The boy explained it would have been possible for him to win more accolades, but he was limited to only three entries. I listen to him with genuine interest. Dick has a very unique way of speaking and I note his vocabulary is becoming even broader; he admitted his victory in the one-hundred-metre final was very 'ostentatious'. I am pleased with his progress.

Our main course is not as complex or extravagant a dish as the soup, but is delicious regardless. Steak, dauphinois potatoes and assorted vegetables are gone in minutes from the boy's plate. I take my time with the steak to savour its rich flavour. Alfred is the best chef I have ever encountered, without exception. It is a world-worthy talent, but the old man prefers to share it with just Dick and myself. I am grateful for his presence in ways he will never truly understand.

"How was your date with Ms. Laura Decker? You went to the ice-rink, did you not?" I ask as Alfred clears away our plates. Lately, the boy has been heavily involved with a charming girl from his History class. I have counted twenty-one separate instances in the past three months in which Dick has been occupied with 'extra-curricular studies'. It is pleasing to see the boy enjoying his youth. Ms. Decker's parents speak of Dick very highly, eluding to his status as a perfect gentleman. Alfred's lessons have been of great benefit after all it would seem. My inquiry is met with a modest smile.

"It was nice. She, uh, fell over a couple of times and pulled me with her, but it was okay; not everyone's a natural right?" The boy says wiping his mouth on his napkin, "I'm meeting her again at the movies on Saturday. We're going to go see something girly." Suddenly Dick adopts a very concerned expression. His gaze is still fixed on me. He leans over the table. "Do you think I should pay for the tickets? I thought it might be too, I don't know, showy of me to do that. What do you think?"

"You should compromise. Either you pay for the tickets and she pays for the snacks, or vice-versa."

"But what if they don't come to the same amount? What if she pays more for the tickets than I do for the snacks?"

"It is the gesture, not the price, that is appreciated, Dick. You understand?" As I finish articulating that sentiment, Alfred is putting out the desserts. We briefly exchange glances. The old man nods and turns his attentions to the boy.

"Master Bruce is entirely correct in what he says, young sir. I am certain Ms. Decker would be more than happy with just your company, but the idea that you would willingly pay for either entry or snacks is a most effective way of furthering your relationship. Kindly remove your elbows from the table."

The boy does as instructed. Alfred's timing with the dessert course, a New Yorker style cheesecake, is far more than a fortuitous occurrence. The old man knows when his input is required or sought after. He also knows that I want his support from the shortest of glances. Again, my fortune in having such company is beyond anything a man in my position should expect. Dick's frown disappears. He smiles and nods.

"Thank you, Alfie."

"You are most welcome, Master Dick. Would you care for another glass of wine, Master Bruce?"

"No thank you, Alfred."

"Very good Sir."

The old man bows his head and vacates the room. Even his motion of exiting a room is performed with practiced professionalism. Yes, I am very fortunate to have Alfred in my service.

During the dessert, Dick talks about Ms. Decker and her many, many traits. At times, the boy seems to be delivering an intelligence or reconnaissance report, such is the level of detail. His observational skills are impressive, but perhaps a little too excessive in their application, given whom he is talking about. This is not a target. This is, for all his denials, his girlfriend and he should not be so invasive. I do not voice these particular sentiments. I am sure Dick will learn about relationship boundaries with experience.

When Alfred removes the empty dessert plates, the dinner proceedings are concluded. Dick politely asks to be excused from the table. I allow him to depart while serving notice that night patrols will commence in two hours. Once he is gone, the old man sits down beside me with two cups of coffee.

"I would say, Master Bruce, that was the most pleasant and uneventful meal yet with the young master's company." Alfred offers as he sips his coffee. I am debating something.

"Has he gotten taller, Alfred?"

"Indeed, he has, Sir. He has grown nearly three inches over the summer. Do you fear competition?"

We smile at one another. "That boy will never be taller than me, old friend, never." I sip my coffee.

"Nevertheless, Sir, Master Richard is growing up to be a fine young man. I trust you feel the same?"

"Very much so, Alfred. Very much so."

I am immensely proud of the boy and all he has accomplished since his arrival here. I am proud to be his guardian, proud to say he is mine. I am certain I have never felt so strongly about another human being. The sensation is welcome on so many levels. I finish my coffee some twenty minutes later. I immediately head down to the cave and begin preparations.

It is ten-thirty P.M. The boy and I have completed preliminary rounds of the city and are now on surveillance of a possible Al-Qaeda cell operating with assistance from Lower-East Side crime lords. Although we are gathering intelligence by way of bugged gangland safe houses, we leave the majority of the work to Gordon's terrorist task force and associated homeland agencies. Whatever information we uncover will be delivered to GCPD for specialized analysis. My Farsi and Pashtun are slightly dull from lack of use, but it seems they are not planning to commit acts of terrorism in Gotham. They appear to be debating whether or not to supply Gotham degenerates with their IED techniques for gang warfare. It is interesting to say the least.

The cold weather means we are conducting all surveillance from within the car. The boy is trying to stream video from the one camera lens that is totally undetectable by search equipment. It is a new prototype design created by Wayne Enterprises for counter-espionage. It is proving difficult.

"I don't know. Maybe their jamming equipment is messing up the signal or maybe there's a loose connection in the electronics' board from a knock or something." Robin informs me with a clear tone of frustration in his voice. He has resorted to smacking the screen. "Work. Work. Work now. Now. Now. Start working." The boy is now banging the screen, quite severely. Just as I am about to chide him for such unnecessary force, the picture finally appears. Robin grins to himself. "Oh yeah, boy genius here."

Now with visual aid, my partner begins to try and run still images of the insurgents through facial recognition software. I am aware the meeting is reaching an end now. I believe they have agreed to supply the knowledge to criminals here in Gotham. Robin has a match. One man present in that room is a very high-ranking official in the Al-Qaeda chain-of-command. Gordon will find this very useful. A further fifteen minutes pass. The meeting has concluded and the participants have dispersed. We have gathered enough information to offer true assistance to the GCPD and their operations. I drop it on Jim's desk on the way home.

It is now seven minutes past midnight. We are still not at the cave. A hostage situation in the Gotham Financial District, involving over twenty individuals has surfaced on the police scanner. It suggests the actual situation began during daylight hours and has only now been uncovered. The people responsible for taking the hostages have been associated with an extremist group, opposed to capitalism and Western democracy in general, with their origin located in China. Negotiations are already taking place as we arrive on scene. Jim is directing the various elements from a mobile command unit close to the besieged building. We soon meet one another.

"Negotiations are breaking down. Number of hostages is unclear. Number of casualties is unclear. We can only confirm one dead, a senior adviser, Alex Hillenbrand. The bomb doctors have already scoped the building: all entrances and exits are rigged with explosives and the terrorists have no viable escape route in place. I don't think they mean to leave here alive. Suggestions?"

I consider. I decide. "Give me twelve minutes. Keep them occupied." I turn to Robin. The boy nods and we set off for the building. We enter underneath the structure via the parking lot. I am familiar with this particular group and their tactics. They employ proximity-controlled explosives, that is explosives with sensors that trigger only when something crosses their field of vision. They are easy enough to disable. Robin is also familiar with the principles of explosive ordinance and between us, we freeze the explosives on the doors. They have been rendered inert and we enter the building's dark lobby.

When we see the spate of still bodies spread around the room, we know we must act fast. As anticipated the security systems and CCTV camera network has been disabled as the group favours human security over electronic tagging. Switching to thermal imaging, we count three spotters covering all major entrances. They are equipped with night scopes and have spring-loaded detonators clasped in their palms. Our entry into the building was facilitated by one spotter's need to visit the bathroom. Intelligence gathered on the group shows little formal training or enforced discipline for members. It is working to our advantage. At present, our position behind a wall is unstable.

Both the boy and I know that to attempt a silent takedown of any individual could trigger the explosives on the doors. All the terrorists would have to do is relax their hands and we would all be killed. This situation requires careful thinking. It has been four minutes since we arrived. They cannot be allowed to relax their fingers…so they will not. I whisper to my partner if he has any quick-set glue capsules on his utility belt. He has two. I have only one. We must act quickly. There is no margin for error. I disable one nearest to our position without incident. Robin disables the one by the emergency exit to the parking lot in the same manner. We then both take-down the last spotter in front of the street entrance. The glue has set as intended; there are no partial functions of explosives. We render the explosives on the doors safe by removing the detonator relay, relying on the groups past history of not employing self-destruct charges to speed our progress. It has now been six minutes and twenty-seven seconds since we entered the building.

At seven minutes, we have eyes on the main room where the majority of hostages are being held. It is a conference room with furniture barricading the only entry point. Closer examination reveals five individuals standing and approximately thirty people prone on the floor. The room, like the building, is hot with explosives. It is unclear whether they are employing the same type of explosives as downstairs or something more dramatic. Negotiations seem to have broken down entirely. The end goal is now surely only minutes away.

Robin is the one who brings the ventilation system to my attention. The boy proposes the use of fast-acting knock-out capsules, utilizing the vents to convert it to an airborne format, to sedate all persons within the room. It is a plausible plan, but unfortunately not viable. Without knowledge of the explosives or situation in the room, we cannot use something of that nature. Eight minutes forty seconds now. The boy suggests a frontal assault as a scare tactic. I call it foolish immediately. Nine minutes three seconds. I have a strategy. Approaching ten minutes, we are outside the building on the ledge. Gordon has not authorized the use of search lights to give us sufficient cover to operate under. Pressed against the wall, positioned just to the left of the room's window, the boy hangs off the ledge and shimmies along until he is positioned on the other side of the window.

Despite the window being blockaded with a table, it is still an entrance point. A cursory glance reveals all terrorist suspects are wearing flak jackets loaded with C4. The detonators will be in their hands. One is positioned at the door. There are two pairs of individuals on either side of the room. The hostages are shaken, but alive. At ten minutes fifty-one seconds, we will only get one shot at this. If any element goes wrong, it is all over and no-one will walk away from this alive. I exchange glances with the boy. Robin understands the plan. We have rehearsed it many times in the cave. I sweep one side of the room, he sweeps the other. In practice, to sedate and disable five individuals armed with suicide vests takes eight seconds; we need to be faster, much faster.

I give the count with hand signals. Robin has his weapons ready. I begin:

3...

2...

1...

Mark…

Five seconds later, all terrorists are sedated. As expected, severing the command line from the detonator to the pack was enough, this time. The boy negotiated the first two within three seconds. My reaction time for the others was the same. Robin got to the last assailant before me. The man's thumb was a millimetre from triggering his vest. The element of surprise and their lack of formal training bought us three seconds. If we had taken any longer, this room and indeed half this floor would be nothing but a smoking hole of charred rubble and human remains. The operation took eleven minutes and forty-nine seconds to accomplish. As Robin checks the hostages, I give Gordon the signal to send in the bomb disposal teams by radio link.

It is two forty-five A.M. The hostages have been evacuated to medical facilities. All outstanding explosives have been dealt with by disposal teams without significant property damage. All eight terrorist suspects are in custody. The media has been pawned off with a plausible story to report regarding the rescue that does not involve me. The final tally stands, thirteen dead, nine wounded, twenty-seven total hostages recovered from scene alive. Regardless of how the media will chose to portray the situation, that is a good end result given the circumstances.

I know that Jim does not see it that way. I relay information on the Al-Qaeda cell and the intelligence gathered. It seems to lift his spirits somewhat. He thanks me and the boy for our efforts. I tell him to keep me posted on those individuals in custody. After what seems like a fairly long and exhaustive night, we make our exit and head home.

"Why did you say twelve minutes? What difference does it make?" Robin asks me as we close on the cave.

"It is how long I estimated it would take to contain the situation given the circumstances. If it ran any longer, we would be in danger of escalating the situation rather than diffusing it."

"Okay, but how could you know it would take twelve minutes? With two minutes left, we didn't even have a real plan." The boy is trying to catch me out. His tone is playful. I give him a faultless answer.

"Terrorist actions are unpredictable. It is impossible to plan meticulously and expect perfect results. Half-a-plan can be adapted easily. A cogent strategy, tailored to a situation in minute detail does not lend itself to improvisation."

"Yeah, but Bruce, I'm saying it could've taken thirteen minutes or fifteen to execute; would a couple of minutes really make a difference?"

"The plan was only supposed to take ten minutes to execute. Those last two minutes were our error margin."

"So, what, we were like eleven seconds from blowing the whole thing?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

The boy leans back in his chair and is silent. He respects my knowledge and will concede to my explanations, but still finds aspects of what just occurred troubling. I do not believe the threat of death bothered him at all. His coolness under fire is fast becoming his biggest asset as things in the city find higher levels to escalate to on a weekly basis. His performance was perfect. He is the perfect partner in this mission. I look at him and find myself smiling. Robin is quick to notice this unusual happening.

"What?" He asks.

I say nothing.

"What is it?" He asks with real curiosity. I reach over and ruffle his hair.

"You." I say taking my hand back and turning my attentions back to the road.

It is three-seventeen A.M. We have been back in the cave for almost twenty minutes. Alfred has attended to mine and the boy's minor aches and pains and retired to bed. We are alone in the cave. Both of us have shed our uniforms in favour of loose-fitting civilian dress. I will be examining GCPD reports filed concerning this international incident sometime later this morning.

"Boss, I'm gonna go turn in for the next ten hours. Do you need me for anything?" Dick asks languidly. The boy is exhausted by his exertions. I also believe the stresses of the situation we faced tonight have expedited his weariness. I admit, I too am fatigued by recent events.

"No. Thank you for your help tonight, Dick. You performed excellently. Go rest up." I cannot help fragments of my emotions leaking through every word I utter to him. I sound warm and impressed. Dick offers me a smile. He can tell now more than ever how attached I am to him.

"Yeah, I got to meet up with Laura at four so I should really get some serious shut-eye. Wake me at one?"

"Certainly."

"Okay then." The boy says before lumbering towards me. He is ready to drop. He proceeds to embrace me lazily. He knows how much this gesture means to me. I return the gesture. I know how much this means to him. He feels warm and soft in my arms. I cannot believe he is mine. We let go of one another. "Night Bruce. Try to get some sleep." He wanders off into the dark and begins to climb the stairs. I have no concerns about his safety. He has gone for far longer without sleep. He will be fine.

It is seven thirty-one A.M. I get up for work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: The second of four-part acts is arguably the most difficult to write. You must create the various situations neccessary to drive the story arc forward but cannot rush the development. This is where things catch fire...**

**Conditions 2**

It is eight forty-five A.M. I have been scrutinizing the terrorist group responsible for the previous evening's attack. The CDF or Communist Defence Force, are a group who find their origin in 1960s China. With political uprising and social reforms sweeping the western hemisphere, a break-away faction within China's communist party decided to take it upon themselves to stop such changes occurring in the East. At first, they operated exclusively in Asia, using simple homemade explosives to destroy or damage property of rebellious nationals. Later, in the 1970s, they began targeting individuals utilizing the same methods. It was not until the late 1980s that the CDF graduated to extremist levels of terrorism. Suicide bombers became the group's tactic of choice and such attacks became prevalent in the continent for almost five years.

The group then switched their focus from Asia to Europe and then North America. The first record of a CDF attack taking place in the United States was in 2002 in Florida. The death toll was twenty-three. Since then, there have been a subsequent seven attacks on American soil, including the situation last night. Fortunately, only the first attack in Florida was successful. All proceeding attempts to disrupt the country have been foiled. They have publicly stated they will never admit defeat.

News reports on last night's events have been glowing in their appraisal of Gordon's handling of the situation. It is a sign the media is beginning to finally side with GCPD and bodes well for the future. The chances of the CDF staging another attack in Gotham are slim. It is therefore now time to focus back on the Al-Qaeda cell selling trade secrets to Gotham scum. I will require Jim's assistance in breaking this case. I will require access to secure files pertaining to criminal elements capable of orchestrating such a critical deal. Typically Al-Qaeda does not give away such information to non-faction members without some kind of trade. I am certain such a trade will require a great amount of funds; these men are, after all, the subject-matter experts on IEDs. Even without Gordon's assistance, I can begin to compose credible theories and a list of possible suspects.

It is ten thirty-five A.M. I have been exercising in the gymnasium for forty-one minutes. Today is chest and back. I complete my final set of stiff-legged dead lifts with four-hundred and five pounds for eight repetitions. The weight is well within tolerance and I have not been overly taxed by my efforts. It has been a good maintenance session. As I exit the gymnasium floor, I am conscious of the fact that during the entire forty-five minutes my mind was wholly on the weight being lifted. It is rare I am not splitting my concentration when conducting menial tasks. I find myself somewhat pleased.

It is eleven minutes past midday. The boy has been asleep for almost nine hours. It is time to wake him. Alfred has suggested I be the one to do so; apparently the old man has grown annoyed with trying to rouse a stubborn adolescent every day. I carefully enter Dick's room. It is in a remarkably tidy condition. It appears he has grown out of throwing his clothes on the floor, along with everything else. As I cross the room, my foot is caught on something. It is the boy's pyjamas, both his shirt and pants. I pick them up and find both items to be damp. Given that weather recently is not favourable, I surmise that he has not been sleeping well. I put the pyjamas in his laundry basket and open his curtains. He does not even stir.

I watch him sleep for a time. Dick's skin is littered with scars. Many of them are a product of his bludgeoning by Harvey Dent. Thankfully, the most severe are hidden by his hair. He will never lose them. Looking back on the traumas he has experienced and lived through it is a wonder he sleeps at all. I draw close to his bedside. I speak softly.

"Dick? Dick, it's time to wake up now."

Oddly, the boy stirs almost immediately. He lethargically opens his eyes and looks at me. He frowns. "Bruce?" His voice is thick with sleep, but he manages to force himself to a sitting position regardless. "What time is it?"

"It's nearly twenty past twelve."

"I thought I told you to wake me at one."

"I think you need more than three hours to preen for your date."

The boy smirks. "Yeah well, I still have to get there too. I think the cinema's twenty minutes away in the car. Think Alfie knows where The Majestic Theatre is?" Dick is constantly rubbing his eyes as he says this. He is trying to wake himself up properly.

"I am sure he can find it for you. Dick, are you sleeping okay?" As soon as I speak, the boy knows why I am asking. He stops rubbing his face. There is a brief silence.

"I just got hot in bed. Alfie leaves the heating on too high in my room on a night and I wake up sweating." It is a good explanation, but entirely untrue. The boy has come to me before with sleeping problems. I understand he is embarrassed about being weak in front of me, but it is not necessary to lie. I will not scold him or ridicule him. He is still only fourteen. I sit down on the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. Dick makes no move against it. He is fond of such contact nowadays.

"Dick, I want you to enjoy your weekend. If something is troubling you, you can speak to me. And if you do not wish to speak to me, you can always speak to Alfred. Understand?" I squeeze his shoulder. He frowns before adopting a guilty expression.

"The dreams are back. The ones where I'm getting buried alive by Judge Watkins and Two-Face. The, uh, really scary ones. But I didn't wake up screaming like last time." He adds the last sentence after a pause and with some urgency. He does not want to talk to Leslie about them again. Last time he hated it. If it were possible I would take him to a professional psychiatrist, but it is out of the question. I cannot risk the boy disclosing our secrets. I nod my head.

"Well that's a good sign. Would you like me to call Dr. Thompkins and arrange a meeting?" Dick's reaction to look away in disgust is self-explanatory. I remove my hand from his shoulder. "Alright, I won't. Tonight Alfred will give you something to help you sleep. Perhaps it will prove an effective temporary measure." I get up to leave. As I am about to open the door, the boy calls to me.

"Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"Mind throwing me my underwear? It's in the top drawer on your left?"

My response of hitting him in the face with freshly-laundered boxers is somewhat childish, but we both smile. Then I leave.

It is five thirty-five in the afternoon. The last five hours have been productive on many levels. I have liaised with Gordon on both cases. My usual practice does not include talking with Jim in daylight hours, but I believe these situations can be resolved without a great degree of trouble. Gordon has interrogated the CDF terror suspects and already turned them over to higher authorities for specific questioning. It appears, at least to both Gordon and the CIA, that this particular terrorist cell are sole operators on the East Coast and therefore invaluable in locating further cells in the United States. I admit, I too am having difficulty uncovering any links between this CDF group and notable criminals in Gotham; it seems they selected the city at random for such a violent demonstration and were not targeting any specific individuals in either the finance or corporate industries.

With reference to the Al-Qaeda cell, government agencies have already seized the intelligence Dick and I gathered for translation and analysis. Jim sounded disheartened by this. I know how he feels. This is HIS city; if some degenerates want to cause trouble for each other with terrorist help in HIS city, the man has a right to know. I would want to know if I were in his position. It is therefore fortunate I have a copy of all the intelligence gathered and have produced my own translation using state-of-the-art software. I informed Jim I would supply him my own intelligence findings later tonight. He thanked me. At present I am putting finishing touches to the aforementioned report.

The translation and my own knowledge of how the group operates has yielded an intriguing possibility. During the conversation they make persistent referrals to their buyers, individuals they call 'Congo men'. It is not unreasonable to assume that they are talking about Erik Vander, a South-African diamond smuggler who is hiding in Gotham under false papers. I am aware of this only because he has already been arrested for petty theft. The charges were dropped, but both his mug shot and driving license details were recorded and entered in the GCPD database. I have held back in bringing such information to Jim's attention for my own reasons. Vander, or Harold Steadman as he is calling himself, is making connections with the city's biggest players. Although a diamond smuggler by trade, he is attempting to expand his field of expertise to all manner of tradable goods. By doing this, he is unwittingly bringing more attention to his new associates as well as himself. I am waiting until I can confirm Vander's participation in the negotiations and what his intentions are.

The final stages of negotiations are supposed to be taking place tomorrow night at eight-thirty P.M. They will probably change this time and the meeting place to avoid intervention. I am certain Gordon can assist me in establishing the time and place. They are, after all, only so many places in the city that such unscrupulous men can go and have such an illegal meeting and Jim knows them all. I will arrange to meet him tonight at police headquarters.

"Master Bruce?"

Alfred's presence is something of a surprise; the old man only went out grocery shopping forty minutes ago. Given his usual trend, he should not have arrived back at home for at least a further thirty minutes.

"Yes Alfred? Have you finished shopping already?"

"No, Master Bruce. I was called away."

"Called away to what exactly?"

"To collect Master Dick from the cinema."

"I was under the impression they were having dinner afterwards."

"Yes Sir, so was Master Dick."

"Alfred, should I be concerned? What has happened precisely? "

"Ms. Decker has…ended her courtship with the young master. He is taking it rather hard."

"I see. Advice old friend?"

"He is unwilling to discuss the details of what transpired with me, but perhaps he will talk to you."

"And what has prompted this sudden faith in my parenting abilities?"

"It is neither sudden or faith, Sir. You have proven your parenting skills to be excellent. And your bond with that boy is beyond any and all expectations I had when he came to stay with us. You are always seeking new challenges to test yourself with; try this one."

I find the boy in the gymnasium, sweating out his frustrations on the uneven bars. He is still dressed in his street clothes, despite their total lack of suitability, and is breathing heavily, a worrying sign. I am concerned he is pushing himself too hard. I do not wait for him to notice my presence.

"Dick, come down here."

Dick responds by forcing himself into a straddle planche on the highest bar. He looks at me in a way that clearly communicates my presence is not welcome. "I don't want to talk about it Bruce. Just leave me alone." His voice is full of suppressed anger and has a sharp, venomous edge to it I find distasteful. The boy's adolescence is still proving difficult to navigate.

"Don't make me chase you, Dick. In those clothes, I could force you to the ground inside of forty-two seconds. Please come down and talk to me." My threat is a very real possibility, however forty-two seconds is being generous to my abilities; the boy is lightning fast in any attire.

"Bruce, I just had my heart ripped out. My chest feels like some fat guy stamped on it and I don't want to talk about it." Dick practically snaps back, pushing his body into a handstand with little effort. I am getting the distinct impression the boy will not negotiate on my terms. I must try an alternative tact.

"You can stay up there if you want. We can talk from here."

Dick does not like this observation. He flips off the bars and grasps the rings immediately behind him. He then climbs up to even higher ground, settling at the ceiling brackets the rings are attached to. "I am NOT talking to you, Bruce. Give me some damn space!"

"Dick, I do not want you brooding in the dark like me. Don't you remember earlier? You can talk to me about anything."

"Go away now."

He is not giving me any ground to work with. I admit to a growing frustration and sense of futility in my attempts. I try one last angle.

"Did you pay for the tickets or the popcorn?"

"Neither, she dumped me before we even got inside. Some freakin' gesture that was." Dick says, sneering at what must still be a very fresh and painful memory for him. Regardless, I have made something of a breakthrough. I push on.

"Did she give you a reason?"

The boy hooks one leg round the cable he is dangling from before turning himself upside-down. He shrugs his shoulders. "She gave me the most lame-ass excuse I've ever heard in my whole life. Get this, she says I'm just not _right_ for her. I'm not right for her? Three months and she realizes she's made a mistake? How stupid does she think I am?"

"So why did she really finish with you?"

"The exact same reason women finish with you. I'm never around when she wants me to be and I cut away suddenly without any explanation. She obviously thought I was too weird for her. My charm only gets me so far."

Dick is more upset than annoyed with himself. That much is readily apparent to me. He believes his duties as Robin have sabotaged his relationship. He thinks he brought this heartbreak on himself. It is strange to see the boy so negative. In recent months, he has adopted a firmly positive outlook on the world and refused to become angry, upset or irritated regardless of the situation. This attitude was commendable, but impossible to maintain.

"I see. Do you think you're weird?" I ask, unsure of where I believe this conversation is going. I consider Dick to be the best example of an American teenager. I do not, nor have I ever found him to be weird, odd or uncomfortable to be around. I am therefore curious as to what the boy's opinion is of himself.

"Sometimes I do. Sometimes…I feel I'm not…normal." Dick responds, now in the process of shinning down the cable holding the rings.

"What makes you think that?"

"Have you seen me lately?" The boy says as he performs a backwards somersault and lands directly at my feet. "You see that? I didn't do that. Your training makes me do that. I couldn't do half this crazy acrobatic stuff in the circus. You made me into a freak and that's why she finished with me." It would appear Dick has found something to focus all his anger and frustration on. Amazingly, it has finally turned out to be me. I had anticipated teenage rebellion much earlier than this given the boy's outspoken character. I am somewhat relieved I have been unscathed up to this point.

"Am I to take it that we are no longer friends in that case, Dick?" Throughout the whole conversation, my voice has remained calm. The boy's has fluctuated wildly between anger, bitterness, disgust, scorn, depression and disappointment. At present, he is highly sensitive. That is why I have not offered any hint of emotion for him to throw back in my face. Dick is trying to goad me into fitting the part of the villain he has decided I am. To him, I am the saboteur. Alfred was correct, this is a challenge.

The boy, a mess of sweat-drenched hair and damp clothes, shakes his head. "We were never friends. You ruined my life." He says the second sentence with such spite and resentment that I cannot help but wonder if he really believes what he is saying. I conclude he does not. He is simply heartbroken and wanting to blame anybody but himself. I am convinced that, with time, he will move on. I do not touch him even though I want to. "I will see you later, Dick. Perhaps you'll feel differently on the matter then." Dick's reply of rolling his eyes and exiting the room are not encouraging signs. He will move on. I go back to work.

It is eight forty-six P.M. I am at GCPD headquarters discussing possible meeting locations with Jim. Robin has decided not to make an appearance tonight. While I am disheartened by his absence, I am certain it is the best course of action for him at this moment.

"Considering surveillance on The Narrows has gotten tighter since Fognini's downfall, I doubt they'll be dumb enough to hold the meeting there." Jim says to discount yet another potential lead. Using a city ordinance map, we have discounted over two dozen possible sites for the exchange. Considering the fact we only began with forty viable locations, our progress has been swift. We have only been working together on the problem for thirty-two minutes. New intelligence from bugged gang hangouts has informed us the meeting has been postponed until ten-thirty this evening. We have sufficient time to mobilize a taskforce and shut down this major trip hazard for Gotham's safety. It is a gift.

"Thoughts on Joey's Bar on Decker Street, Upper-East Side?" I offer. Gordon considers my proposal.

"It has the necessary structure and access to the freeways to make it good for a fast getaway should trouble kick off. And its owners have family ties to Daniel Unum, the man mentioned in your transcripts of the conversation." He still does not look convinced by his own appraisal of the venue. He shakes his head. "The place is too small. Terrorists would never meet in somewhere without breathing space. If things get ugly, they've got no room to move." I concur. We move on.

"The Palisades, 232 River Street, Gotham Heights." I say. Jim nods for the first time.

"Building's been under surveillance for a while. And it has been recently refurbished. The transcript did mention the fact the meeting place had been 'upgraded' to suit their needs. I think they serve Muslim kosher meals there now. And the restaurant is owned by Jack Andrews, Unum's main money-laundering creep."

"Do they have a backroom?"

Jim knows I do not mean a backroom for stock or staff. When we say backroom, we mean safe house. Gordon nods. "Yeah. Steadman was using it about a month ago when we first raided the place for counterfeit currency. We came up empty, everybody walked. We can't get a warrant now."

"Does Steadman know that?"

"I'm pretty certain he'll have figured it out by now."

Faced with only a further three possible places to search, I decide to concentrate my efforts on The Palisades. Gordon can easily dispatch a couple of cars to each of the other locations as a precaution, but I am certain Andrews is the man I need to check-in on. "I will radio you if I uncover anything. How fast can you get an armed unit to that location?"

"Worse comes to worst? Eight minutes."

"That will be more than adequate."

"Just be careful. In spite of all your information, we're still only speculating on Steadman's involvement in this thing. If it turns out he's not driving this meet forward, we'll need to re-think."

"Understood. I'll keep you posted."

It is nine fifty-five P.M. I have been at The Palisades for almost an hour. Thermal imaging and listening devices have picked up enough corroborating evidence to support my hunch the meet is happening here. Steadman has arrived on scene and must therefore be involved in some way. I relay all this to Gordon. I am finding the boy's absence difficult. I miss him. Regardless of my personal feelings, my focus must remain on the current situation. I engineer a way inside using a loose window pane on the second floor and stay out of sight.

It is closing on ten thirty P.M. Thermals reveal the arrival of three more individuals to the restaurant area beneath my position. They will soon be moving to the backroom. Steadman is already there, waiting. He has an elevated heart rate. There is potential for disaster; all participants in this meeting are carrying firearms. I leave my position and head downstairs to the first floor. I am now directly above the backroom. I begin cutting a hole in the floor for access purposes. I am mindful of lighting fixtures and electrical wiring. What happens in the next few seconds had not been anticipated. I am struck from behind with a heavy and blunt object. The force with which it is swung is sufficient to knock me to the ground. Despite the strength and shock absorption capabilities of my cowl, I am still struggling to remain conscious. As I attempt to get up from the floor I am struck again. Then I black out…


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Due to the dryness of always writing from Bruce's point of view and the sheer amount of detail required to accurately portray him as both a master logistician and strategist, I have decided the remainder of the story shall be continued from Dick's point of view to keep my interest. Although many more observant readers will note he shares many of the same qualities as Bruce when viewing a situation, it is only because he has been TRAINED by Bruce to do so. Read and Enjoy. Reviews welcome but not mandatory.**

**Conditions 3**

It's after midnight. Bruce still isn't back from the bust. Normally I wouldn't freak out about something like this. But the media outlets haven't said a single thing about the bust; nothing has coverage on it. It makes me think that either A, something's gone horribly wrong and there's a blackout or B, the bust did not happen at all. Everything Bruce has taught me and everything that I've seen as Robin tells me it's option B. I know the big man's drills for a situation like this though:

His first step is always to liaise with Gordon and the GCPD. Next he locates the place they need to hit. His third step is to always relay the information to Gordon. That's the guy's safety net should anything go wrong; Jim Gordon's rapid response. After that, he waits for the sirens to be in range before containing the situation. The last few steps in the chain are a formality; bag and tag the creeps, thank Gordon and vacate the scene for forensics. Then RETURN home. Something has interrupted that sequence of events…something big. Because relaying the information to the police is the only component that's done electronically, that is, without face-to-face human interaction, it has to be where the breakdown occurred. At this point, I'm panicking my ass off thinking it's my fault.

I should've backed him up tonight. I knew it was important. But I got angry. Angry enough to blow him off. Yeah so Laura dumped me; it's no excuse to leave Bruce at Gotham's mercy. Goddamn I'm a cry-baby! If he's hurt then I-what if…he's dead? Oh Jesus! What if I got him killed? Oh my fu-

Calm down, Dicky. Losing your mind isn't helping anyone, least of all Bruce. Let's pull it together and reason the situation out. Okay. Okay…

GPS tracker. Bruce's suit has a GPS tracker built into the headpiece. It's accessible by the main computer terminal. The suit's also got a heart-rate monitor and a video-feed to look over. Just relax. Let's do the detective-investigator thing and check the evidence.

The GPS tracker is working. According to the system, Bruce…or at least his suit is in an abandoned tenement building near Park Row. Heart-rate monitor says his heart-rate is steady so he's alive and still in costume. Heart's at 90 beats a minute though; he's in hot water. Bruce's resting heart-rate is barely above 55; if it's at 90, he's almost panicking. Video-feed has been damaged by something, probably a blow to the headpiece. I'm just spit-balling here, but I'd guess he's still masked-up too. Seeing as how trying to remove or lift it without the proper authorisation code sends 50,000 volts - the equivalent of a police taser - to whoever's doing the moving, it's a good bet.

90 beats a minute. The Boss-man must be surrounded or at least tied up to give up that many beats. He probably needs as much blood flow as he can get; Bruce might have a concussion or some other head-injury. If it were a severe bleed, the guy would SLOW his heart-rate, not increase it; he'd just bleed out faster. Okay. Okay…

I need to get to his location.

"Alfie, we got a problem." I tell my other dad when he comes back down to the cave. I'm already suited up and arming my utility belt with supplies when I say this. "Bruce has been captured by unknown personnel and is being held in some crappy area near Park Row. I think it's time for a rescue, don't you?"

"Should I alert Commissioner Gordon of your findings?"

Good ol' Alfie. I can always rely on the guy to keep a cool head in a pressure cooker like this. "Let's not play Russian roulette with the big man's life by just sending the drummer boy to the rescue, hmm? Get the rest of the cavalry down to that address on the screen."

"You are far more than a drummer boy, Sir; never sell yourself short." Alfie tells me as I finish loading CS gas grenades into my last two pouches. I nod.

"We'll talk about it later. I'll keep a comm-link with the cave, keep you posted on my progress. Is my bike ready to go?" I ask already running for the vehicle park. Other dad's already radioing the GCPD Bruce's map co-ordinates.

"To your immediate right, Master Dick. Do wear your helmet."

I'm on the bike and on the move in very few seconds. I put my helmet on. Alfie is kinda insistent on road safety. The fact I'm doing more than 150 miles-an-hour and weaving in and out of high-speed traffic whilst glancing at what is essentially a very expensive Sat-Nav does not matter; I'm wearing my helmet. Everything's cool. According to the GPS, I'm now six miles away from Bruce's location, approximately 95 seconds from arrival.

"Alfie, how's he doing? Heart-rate still strong?" I say as I close to just a couple of city blocks.

"_His heart-rate has now exceeded 100 beats per minute; I daresay the situation has escalated somewhat. Do hurry, Sir."_

"I'm there now!"

Yeah, I let go of the bike completely while it's doing 190. Time is really of the essence here; don't have time to brake to a gentle stop. Back flipping off the back of it is probably not the smartest move I could've done in this situation, but the Boss-man needs me now. Not in two minutes, not even in two seconds; Bruce needs me NOW. I charge into the tenement without a second thought or even a coherent plan of attack. I drop a gas grenade into the basement whilst donning my respirator and diving in. It luckily proves to be the right play. Bruce is down here, tied to the wall, staring down a four-man firing squad. Thank God I didn't panic for a few seconds more back at the cave. The big man would be dead by now.

Everyone's overcome by the gas' harsh effects. I wade in and deal with the danger first, disarming all four heavy-set goons with the nerve strike techniques Bruce taught me. They fall like stones to the concrete. I then turn my attentions to my partner. Bruce is suffering from the effects too, but to a lesser extent; guy's used to this treatment from every scumbag with half-a-brain. I untie him and help him get up the stairs. He's been shot a few times.

Kevlar plating in his armour took the brunt of the bullets, but they are gonna hurt like hell for a few weeks. I know from experience. Amazingly, the guy's already back on his feet, the gas' effects seemingly nullified completely. I radio Alfie to give him the good news.

"Boss-man's alive and kicking. What's the ETA on Gordon's arrival?"

"_Approximately three seconds, Sir."_

Right on cue, the cops burst through the door, guns drawn and trained on Batman and myself. We're not sure whether they'll squeeze the triggers or not. My ass-cheeks are clenched tight. Bruce's hand falls on my shoulder and I relax. That's his signal for 'everything's fine, Dick, we'll be out of here in less than a minute'. Sure enough, Gordon shoves past his guys and runs with the' we were worried sick' speech. Batman's growl cuts it short.

"It's not Steadman. It's Harvey Dent WITH Steadman. We need to find Two-Face now."

I feel faint just hearing that demented freak's name. All I can think about is what happened with judge Watkins, the decision I made…the aftermath…I shake the feelings loose. Can't afford nightmares now; Batman needs my help.

Commissioner Gordon's face is a picture. A picture of a tortured soul. Just goes to show this kind of work doesn't get any easier with time. He speaks what I'm thinking. "Dent only escaped Arkham three days ago. This deal between Gotham scumbags and Middle-Eastern fanatics has been months of planning."

"Dent's been orchestrating the whole thing since his incarceration. He's about to exact his revenge tonight." Bruce says with absolute certainty, the kind he reserves only for when he is indisputably in the right. It sells Gordon straight away…and me.

"You mean you and the boy are his targets? You brought him in after all."

"Too small a piece. He wants the city to burn."

"He's rigged the whole damn city to blow?"

"No. Just half."

The Boss-man was not just making a joke. It isn't in his nature to make those kind of calls. What was once a simple international terrorist swap-meet has been blow-up to mass genocide proportions. Gotham has a population of 4 million. Two-Face wants half of it to go up in flames. He's going to kill 2 million people…just because he's hideously ugly. Damn the man has issues. Concentrate Dicky boy. This is important. Bruce tells the commissioner whatever he can. It's not much.

Apparently the actual exchange of technology had already occurred some two months earlier under the radar. The explosives have already been placed and primed. The whole thing is rigged by a dual-timer hidden somewhere in the city skyline. Once the initial timer expires, all the explosives will arm themselves for detonation and a secondary time will count-down. Once that timer reaches zero, all the explosives will function simultaneously and wipe out half of everything within the city limits. Bruce knows this because Dent told him this in person. What an egomaniac. We don't know where the explosives are, where Dent is or where the timer is…we need to act fast.

Gordon's already on the phone to the bomb squad; they're gonna hate their jobs pretty soon if these terrorist attacks keep up. Meanwhile Batman and I have hightailed it to the car.

"What's the plan, Boss?" I ask as he patches the onboard systems to the cave computer. This is the first thing I've said to him since the 'you were never my friend, you ruined my life' line I spat in the gym. I'm lucky he isn't childish enough to not speak to me right now.

"I have an idea where the timer is. We just need to confirm it." I love this man! Seriously, who thinks about mechanical run-down timers when they're staring death in the face? Bruce is really, truly amazing.

"Tell me where."

"Wayne Tower."

"Why there?"

"Only point in the city high enough. If I'm right, Dent will have wired it to the antenna array on the roof, boosting the power output and giving the timer's detonation signal enough range to effectively function all the explosives." I pose the obvious question.

"So, shouldn't we be heading there like right now?"

"I'm hoping I can shut down the tower's power systems remotely so we don't have to." Right, of course, why didn't I think of that? Guy thinks of everything, makes me feel like such a little kid…Oh, right, I am a little kid. Don't really know why I keep forgetting that.

"_I'm afraid the action is impossible, Sir. It would appear Mr. Dent has locked-out the remote access functions of that particular array." _Alfie informs us to make Bruce fire up the monster-sized engine and streak off for the tower. The man doesn't even take a second to consider what to do next; he just acts, he just knows. I can't believe I accused this guy of ruining my life. I'm such an idiot. He'd be dead right now if he hadn't 'ruined' my life. I could be dead right now…concentrate Dicky, concentrate.

"Aren't you worried it'll go off?" I ask only to earn a cold stare from my partner. I roll my eyes. "Sorry. Aren't you worried it'll 'function' before we get there?" He likes proper terminology for 'explosive ordinance'; 'go off' and 'blow junk to bits' aren't the correct phrases to use in this situation.

"Remember Harvey's obsession with duality. This bomb should have detonated at 22:22 or failing that, 12:22. Seeing as it's now 12:41, the next most likely timeframe for detonation is…"

"02:22 - the exact time he drowned the judge." Just saying the word 'judge' sends sharp pains crashing into my chest. I let that man drown. I killed an innocent man…over a bet with a maniac…Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it-

Bruce's hand is on my shoulder, squeezing it. "Put the past behind you. We need to stop Dent. WE need to stop Dent." He looks at me briefly. "You with me, partner?" His hand is still on my shoulder. The big man won't let me fall into my own grave without a fight. He needs me. Hell, Bruce LOVES me; there ain't gonna be a repeat performance this time, this time Dent is going down for GOOD. For damn good.

"Yeah, big man, I'm with you."

Our ETA to the tower is three minutes. It's just enough time for a short conversation, the kind with very, very few syllables. He starts it.

"Bike?"

"Yeah."

"Location?"

"Auto-cycle back to home base."

"Ammunition?"

"One CS grenade, ten smoke pellets, six glue pellets, four batarangs, one short-range electronic jammer, two tranquilizer darts and the anti-toxin kit."

"Kevlar tunic?"

"Yeah."

"Scalpel?"

"Yep."

"Grapple-gun?"

"On the belt."

"Good. We're all set."

Our ETA is now two minutes. I hesitate for a while before finally voicing the screaming words in my head.

"Sorry about earlier today. You didn't deserve some of the stuff I said."

"We will discuss this in the cave." I knew he'd say that. It doesn't matter though; I feel a hell of a lot less guilty now I've apologized for being an ass. ETA is now less than a minute.

When we reach the base of the tower, somewhat predictably, we're met with a rainstorm of gunfire from the windows. Bruce is not going to be pleased they've trashed his building. With the amount of fire they're putting down on the car's thick armour, it's hard to tell whether or not they number more than twenty. The big man's solution is to go underground via the parking lot. There's still gunfire, but only a fraction as much. Two-Face is trying to stall us, big time. As Bruce swings the car round to interpose it between the incoming rounds and the elevators, the thugs start to close ranks and pile in. We slip out the car and open the elevator. Once the gunfire's muffled by closed doors, he tells the car to enter its defence mode via a comm-link under his cowl. That's the car safe, as for us, we need to move.

I ditch my short-range jammer in the elevator control panel, effectively rendering the whole system dead and making it very difficult for our admirers to follow. Climbing the elevator shaft using the cables is a real drag. That's why Bruce invented the grapple-gun. We both fire, extending the tension cable in our guns to their maximum distance. The lines find purchase on the rail ladder maintenance crews use and we shoot up. Doing that never stops being cool. Now it's just a straight-forward scale to the top floor. Unfortunately for us, Wayne Tower is the highest building in Gotham by some distance. By the time we're half-way there it's already closing in on 01:30. The gun-happy crowd have finally figured out that we're in the shaft and are no doubt trying to re-initialize the elevator mechanism. Because I embedded the jammer deep in the panel's internal wiring, it should take them a while to find it and even longer to dislodge it. Technology's great, huh?

We use the grappling gun a further two times to shorten the distance, but the thing's like any gas-propelled device; eventually it gets overheated and needs to cool-down. That's why Bruce always says to use it sparingly and as a last resort. At just before 02:00, we plateau at the summit. A heavy set of hands, and a smaller set I might add, force the elevator doors open. There's no-one on the penultimate floor; they're expecting us on the last floor, next to the roof access. By taking the stairs from this floor, we bypass the remaining guards without ever setting eyes on them. It was a risk taking this particular route, given Bruce's propensity for security cameras and the fact that the whole building's security system is being watched, but the guy has the distraction advantage. Judging from what we can hear through the walls, the GCPD has turned up and is creating an epic diversion.

"Thermal imaging's been damaged. I cannot tell if we'll get a welcoming committee or not once we move through these doors." The big man tells me as we press ourselves against the walls on either side of the final door between us and the roof. I shrug my shoulders.

"Guess we'll just have to rely on surprise to get the job done." Bruce nods in agreement.

"No matter what happens, stick to the plan and disarm the timer. I'll deal with Dent."

"You really think he'd be here given what's about to happen to the surrounding area?"

"He's here. I can sense him."

"It really creeps me out when you say stuff like that."

"Ready?"

I take one last deep breath to compose myself. I nod. "Ready."

And just like that, we go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Never extend a good story past its intended life expectancy as it loses tight plot narration and tends to lend itself to wild tangents. With that in mind, this is the end of Conditions. Enjoy.**

**Conditions 4**

The split second following our dramatic entry onto the roof of Wayne Tower is drowned out in automatic fire. Guns suck. Our first mission is to take cover from the onslaught. I dive back behind the door as a stray bullet whizzes past my face. Bruce has the same idea I have and we both launch the gas grenades within moments of one another. It doesn't matter that they're being shot to hell; the gas is still spreading like wildfire. I think we both realize these guys came prepared when there's no coughing to be heard. They're probably wearing respirators so we don ours. Next we try smoke pellets to darken our approach.

"Divide their firepower." My partner instructs me.

"Dibs on banking left."

"Get to the detonator. We've got eight minutes."

With our strategy planned-out, we break cover and run in the opposite direction to one another. I have to cartwheel a few times to dodge more wayward bullets, but I'm near the antenna array. From the array's far side, I hear Bruce shouting it out with Dent. I really want to know what they're saying, but I have to concentrate on the bomb. It takes some serious crawling, but I eventually find the device without being tagged. It is a seriously complicated piece of work.

At first, it looks like a basic mechanical run-down timer with all the relevant components: safe-to-arm switch, detonator relay and a time/power unit. The main charge is obviously remoted away from the building to avoid fragmentation. What I should be seeing besides these things is just a couple of wires feeding into the array to make it an amplifier and nothing else. The amplifier's there and there is nothing else…in this box. But of course, this being Two-Face, there are TWO boxes. And they're both identical. But I know immediately that only one of them is the actual trigger for the explosives; the other's a dummy to divert my attention. The problem is this: I can diffuse this type of device, but only just within the time left, three-and-a-half minutes. Because the two boxes are spaced more than twenty metres I can't diffuse them both simultaneously. I have to choose the real device right this second or there won't be enough time left to disarm it and two million people will die. If I choose wrong, two million people die. If I don't choose fast enough…you get the idea.

I make a snap decision and target the device I'm closest to, on the left. Bruce always told me to go with my gut feeling in situations like these; he said the worst thing we can do in the field is be indecisive. It's always better to have a plan of action and fail than to have no plan and fail anyway; at least you tried to do something. First thing I do is examine the wires to the array for any discrepancies or hidden sensors; there are none. So I cut them first, knowing that even without a physical connection to the antenna, the proximity of it will still boost the device's signal strength by some way, at least three or four kilometres.

Now I got a couple of minutes left to doomsday. I don't know how Bruce is doing with Dent; I'm too focused on this to notice anything else. It's dangerous to be in so deep, but I have no alternative. Two million people. Let's do this, Dicky boy, let's save the day. My hand is starting to tremble as I complete the first delicate cut on the detonator relay. I'm thinking mercury tilt switch and that's not good news. I get anymore shaky and this thing will detonate right this second. I take a deep, calming breath and steady my nerves; Bruce needs me here, needs me bad. I make the second cut. With any luck, I only need to make one more and the timer will stop. Just one more…

CRACK

I was too glued to the device; I should've been aware of my surroundings. I got tagged by a baseball bat and it's pretty much lights out for this drummer boy. Pretty much lights out, but not quite. I roll quick enough to dodge another hit and then manage to get to my feet. Vision's dark and blurry, hearing's distant and my legs feel like lead. Whoever's swinging comes forward and stands right in front of me. I can just make out arms above their head and I'm guessing they mean to finish me off as efficiently as possible, with a blow to the base of the skull. Vision's not coming back as quick as I hoped; I'm going to have to do this blind. I'm scared, but Bruce needs me to disarm this thing. So I go into it blind.

I dive through the guy's legs, slide on my stomach for a few feet and then hit the array. When I throw the batarang, I hope my attacker's as quick as I think he is and has closed the gap between us enough to make my hit a knockout strike. When I hear a heavy thump that vibrates the ground, I know I got lucky. I must have seconds left to cut this wire that I can barely see. Can't find my scalpel, lost it in the aftermath, going to have to improvise a tool. I grope on my belt until I have what I think is my tranquiliser dart and snap the needle. I take the wire and use the jagged edge of the dart to poke through it. Then I start to saw, trying to keep the wire as still as possible. My vision's clearing. The wire is almost completely frayed; almost there. A moment later, one end of the wire falls away from my hand. I can't tell whether the timer's stopped or run itself down. That's it though; I've done all I can do. So I wait for the roar of an explosion in the near distance. It doesn't come.

"Robin?"

I look up and see the big guy's silhouette looming large over me.

"Two-Face?" I ask as he crouches down.

"In custody. Are you okay, partner?" He pulls my respirator off my face so I can breathe again. I feel his fingers press into my shoulders, holding me steady. My vision's still kinda blurry. I nod my head.

"Yeah. Goon tagged me from behind, think I might have a concussion or two."

"Even so, you successfully disarmed the device before it could function. How did you choose which device to focus on?"

"Dent's ugly on his left side. I figured left side, bad bomb."

"Good guess."

Suddenly the ground disappears from under me and Bruce has me in his arms. I suddenly realize I can't hear anything but the wind. "Did you take out everyone?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Thirty-one."

"Holy shit."

"Language."

By the time Gordon and the GCPD have got all forty-three of Dent's gang in the back of their wagons and carted the man himself away for interrogation, I'm feeling well enough to stand. Still, the big guy makes sure I see the paramedics before we leave. They diagnose me with a Grade I concussion, nothing some meds and sleep won't iron out. I watch from the sidelines as Bruce and Jim go over the finer points of what just unfolded. The tower is a mess of shattered glass and smoke. I counted twelve body bags carted out of the building and three from the street itself; it got awfully nasty out here. The bomb squad has been on the roof for a while now. But things could've been a hell of a lot worse. I comfort myself with that fact when we finally head back to the car; it's been a rough few days for all of us.

"All the remote receivers have been rendered inert by GCPD's IT department. Their removal will take a few days as will the disposal of their main charges from building foundations, but there is no chance of any partial explosions occurring. Congratulations, Dick; you saved half the city. I'm proud of you."

I give him a smile as we drive back to the cave. "Thanks, Boss; I just do what I can."

"How's your head doing?"

"Still a little fuzzy, but it's getting better. Sorry about your building."

"It's easily rectified."

We're silent for the next five minutes. Then I ask the hard questions. "How many men did Gordon lose?" Bruce doesn't hesitate even for a split second.

"Four. Their next of kin have been informed." Even though I had no control over what happened, I still feel bad for them. They were doing the same job as us, trying to save the innocents. They died for us, died to give us time to work.

"And what about Two-Face?"

"Thirteen dead, six in a critical condition and the remainder suffered minor injuries. I broke Dent's arm in the struggle." He says it all with such indifference; how does he keep so calm? I nod my head.

"I'm glad."

"Don't say things like that, Dick; you're better than such remarks." His tone hasn't changed; he's still flat and monotone, totally unfazed by anything that's happened tonight. I press him.

"You know if I hadn't rescued you in time, not only would you be dead, but half the city would now be in flames?"

"That would not happen."

"Why not? Only you knew who was really behind all this. Without you, we would've been chasing the wrong guy."

"You would've made the connection. Between you and Jim, you would've contained the situation."

"Do you really have that much faith in me?"

"Not faith. You are a proven asset to this mission. Your intelligence and abilities are undeniable facts. You would have stopped Dent."

I lean back in my chair. I know the big man trusts me implicitly. I know he believes in me. But, to know that he thinks I'm capable of solving this level of investigation without his direction and guidance is a little hard to accept. I'm not Bruce. Nobody's Bruce, nobody's even close to his level; he deduces the impossible. I don't say anything for the rest of the ride back to base.

We've been back in the cave for almost forty minutes. Alfie's pleased to see us largely unharmed, but is on me like a rash for my head injury. Bruce is just Bruce. While I'm under Alfie's microscope, he replaces his suit back in the armoury along with all weapons. He turns the car around, filling up the gas tank and checking the tyre pressures, the armour plating, the brake fluid and the rest of that stuff. He nearly died tonight, was like a second away from seeing the clouds and the angels, but just shrugged the whole thing off; does he even register things like this anymore? It makes me wonder how human the guy really is, when it all comes down to it.

"Bed rest, young man, plenty of it." The old man tells me with authority nobody can cross, even the boss-man. I nod in agreement as he hands me some pretty pink pills to swallow. I watch him turn his attentions on Bruce.

"Now remember, Sir, your meeting at police headquarters to discuss the damage to Wayne Tower is scheduled for nine o'clock." Alfie tells him as he applies ointment to the big man's bruises. I see Bruce's face faintly register the sting, but nothing more. "I will arrange for the rebuilding of the architecture after the meeting so as not to arouse suspicion. What do you estimate the overall cost to be?" The old guy goes on whilst bandaging Bruce's ribs.

"$150 million dollars. I'll need at least 100 labourers on site by the end of tomorrow to ensure refurbishment is completed within a fortnight." Alfie nods along taking his mental notes; I never see him write anything down.

"I trust you will want Armistice Construction to head the project?"

"Yes. Call Hal Ferguson tomorrow and tell him I'll pay half the total cost in advance if he can be ready to start before midday. That should get his workforce into high gear."

"Very good, Sir."

It looks like Bruce isn't the only one who isn't concerned by his mortality; Alfie barely seemed to notice his employer was almost in the ground either. With the conversation they just had, they could've been at breakfast or in the city. Why doesn't Alfie feel guilty, like I do about letting the big guy run loose round the streets? He could've insisted I go along, just in case something went wrong, but didn't. And now, having cheated death by a sliver, they're both just acting like everything's back to normal. Life just goes on for them. It never stands still like it does for me. When my parents died, everything stopped. When I got the Judge killed, everything stopped. When Bruce didn't come back tonight, everything nearly ground to a halt for me again. I don't actually know what I'd do without Bruce anymore. I can't actually imagine life without him now. To be honest, it's getting harder to remember a time when he wasn't around, even though I've only been with him for a few years. I need Bruce to keep my life going; I never want it to stop again.

A while later, Alfie's done with the Boss and he does that bowing/ curtsey thing before leaving us alone with one another. Bruce is in his civilian clothes now, a sweater and slacks with slippers; I'm still in uniform minus the mask.

"What did you want to say to me earlier, Dick?" The big man asks leaning against the computer terminal while I sit in his chair. His tone isn't expectant or leading, like maybe most people's would be in this situation. Most people would ask for an apology outright for what I said, but not Bruce. He speaks in a soft, gentle voice that somehow makes the cave seem warm and relaxed. I never have trouble saying sorry and that's the first thing out my mouth.

"I'm sorry for what I said in the gym, about you ruining my life and stuff. You didn't deserve that and I can assure you that it will 100% never happen again."

"Do you honestly believe you'll never get rejected by a woman ever again, Dick?" Bruce asks with a small smile.

"No, I mean, I won't ever refuse to go out on patrol with you again. You almost got killed because I was too much of an ass to see that I was being unfair."

Bruce folds his arms. He looks puzzled. "How were you being unfair, exactly?"

"I said my girlfriend dumped me because of you. How much more unfair can you get?"

"It's alright, Dick. Heartbreak hurts, I understand. I'm certain you will find another girl to go ice-skating with in the very near future."

"No Bruce, you're missing the point. We're supposed to be partners; what good is a partner who doesn't want to patrol with you, who doesn't want to watch your back? I nearly got you killed tonight because I couldn't separate my feelings from my social life and work. I nearly got you shot because I wasn't professional enough to do my job. I nearly-"

Bruce's hand is on my shoulder. I'm getting a little hysterical. He smiles at me. "I believe you need reminding who is the adult in this partnership of ours, Dick. I and my safety are not your responsibility, nor would I ever make them so. You did not refuse to go on patrol with me tonight. If you recall, I elected to go on patrol solo tonight in order to give you some space. You did not nearly get me killed. I nearly got myself killed because of my own failings. I should have exercised more caution. If I had died tonight as a result of my actions, there would be no-one to pour blame on but myself. Your timing was fortuitous, yes, and I was fortunate to escape the situation with my life, but even if you had been too late, it would not have mattered. Because I know you would have done your best to save me. That is the most I can expect from you. It is the most anyone can expect from you." There is a pause whilst the Boss gets down in front of me and puts his other hand on my other shoulder. His smile is gone and his face is serious again. He shakes me gently. "You are not a professional crime-fighter; hurting drug-dealers on the street is NOT your occupation. Your job is to be a fourteen-year-old boy and enjoy yourself. The fact that you assist me is a privilege, not an inherent right and I am grateful for your passion. Never blame yourself, Dick. Judge Watkins was your one and only mistake. Shouting at you for it was my mistake. I'm sorry if what has transpired tonight has been troubling you."

Jeez…he just…the man just knows what needs to be said. He just understands what I need to hear. Sometimes I forget he's not just The Batman; the guy's also my best friend. I sometimes forget that I'm more than a side-kick to him, that he sees I'm a scared kid a lot of time and that I need his help on more than just my kicking technique and detective skills. That's why he makes an effort to have dinner with me after work. He wants to know about me and my problems, wants to help me find my feet in life. I want to let him. But sometimes I'm scared to be weak in front of him. Sometimes I feel so embarrassed that I hide things from him. Like the bad dreams. Like the fact that Laura dumped me because I was a little too needy, not because of him. Because, even though I know from experience he's not, I still struggle to see Bruce as anything else but perfect. You always look bad next to perfection. So, after his speech, I say the one thing I'm never afraid of admitting to him.

"I love you. I don't want you to die."

Bruce's reaction is to stand me up and then hug me. "It's okay to be selfish sometimes, Dick." He tells me whilst stroking my hair. He holds me tighter, "Because I love you too." All the guilt goes away, all the pain too. I am safe and I am happy and I am loved. Everything's okay when I'm with him like this. I don't feel ashamed or embarrassed when he holds me like this…just content. The big guy loves me. Screw Laura. Her ass was too big anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I may add more story arcs to Conditions if I feel it would be well-received.**

**Bruce**

Jervis Tetch, A.K.A The Mad Hatter, is a weirdo. No sooner does the guy engineer one impressive escape from the Asylum, he lands himself right back there by reverting back to his usual M.O. The big guy and me were on his trail from the beginning; the minute a girl called Alice disappeared on her way home from school, we began digging. The disused haberdashery (fancy hat shop) in South Gotham, near to both the girl's school and not far from where Tetch was last seen was almost too obvious a possibility. But he was there…with her. It was the same scene I'd seen with him close to half-a-dozen times already; a table laid out for afternoon tea, a few heavy-handed thugs in fancy dress, the girl at the head of the table, Tetch at the foot. Admittedly, I leapt when I really should've been looking…and that's why I got caught out.

The Mad Hatter was using some kind of airborne chemical compound to control his helpers and the girl, not his usual mind-control circuitry. The gas was colour and odourless and I felt weak and dizzy as soon as I'd taken care of one guy. Pretty soon after, the crazy guy was whispering things in my ear and the psychoactive component of the gas was lowering my inhibitions. If Bruce hadn't been only a few minutes behind me, there's no telling what that pervert might've done to me; I knew Tetch was a convicted child molester and killer; who's to say his tastes didn't run to handsome, athletic boys in very short shorts as well as girls? Failing to find one of those boys, he could've settled with me instead. Probably shouldn't joke about stuff like that…

Long story cut short, the boss-man was wearing his respirator before he ventured inside, having considered gas as a potential weapon, and cut both Tetch and his zombie helpers to pieces within a few minutes. Luckily, the girl was untouched and couldn't remember anything too traumatic, besides being kidnapped. I was still feeling funny from the gas when Gordon turned up later on. Bruce kept me especially quiet while dealing with his inquiries and the finer points of the raid. He made a point of telling the commissioner I was fine. I would've told him myself, but as I'd started seeing rabbits by that point, I kept myself quiet.

So now we're back at the cave and the big man is synthesising me an antidote. I'm trying not to fidget on the examination table as Alfie checks my vitals every few minutes. I'm still seeing rabbits. And freaky colours. I should probably like this, but I don't. Truth be told, I'm pretty scared that Bruce won't be able to manufacture a cure and I'll be stuck hallucinating for the rest of my life. It's stupid, I know, because Bruce WILL get me the antidote I need; he never fails to do something when it's really important. He only forgets the little things. Like my athletic meets, gymnastic competitions, spelling bees, or birthday parties. And it was only ONE birthday; the guy's got plenty left to wade his way through; fourteen's not a huge number anyway.

"Alfie, I am seriously freaking out here."

The old man's outline is starting to melt. His words are getting harder to hear too; I guess this stuff is really starting to kick in now.

_"Master Bruce is nearly there, young man. Just remain calm."_

When Alfie puts his hand on my shoulder, I nearly jump out my skin. I did NOT see that coming.

"Is Bruce nearly done with that thing?" I'm trying my best not to sound terrified because I am terrified of what's happening to me. From what I can make out, I sound like a girl.

Everything is blurry now…and the wrong colour. Speech is unintelligible. I think I might be crying and then, just like that, it's over. There's one sharp pinch in my arm, a painful sting, and then the world slowly comes back into view. Bruce is in front of me, looking at me in something like relief. I feel his hand on the back of my neck, his massive, warm hand, and I know he's come through for me again.

"Better?" The big man asks me with half-a-smile. I nod, realizing too late that I have been crying; my face feels wet. I reach up to wipe away the evidence only for Bruce's other hand to beat mine there. He brushes what's left of my moment of weakness away without saying a word. He doesn't care if I bawl. He doesn't care that I'm not always an adult. He just wants me safe.

"I think it's time you went to bed, Dick. School tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah…" I really don't want to look at him so I turn my head as I get off the table. I want to be strong, but as I've already had tears running rampant over my face, I decide I might as well take it all the way. "Will you come with me?" I ask him, still not wanting to look him in the eye. That omnipotent hand of his, the one that seems to just materialize when needed no matter where or what, is on my shoulder, squeezing it.

"Of course." His voice is soft. His hand is gentle. It's always the little things with Bruce that I notice the most. And it's because these things are special. He only speaks softly with me. His hand is only gentle on my shoulder. I see a side of him he chooses to hide from other people. We begin to scale the stairs, still dressed in our uniforms. He always says no uniforms out of the cave, but he'll break them for me if he needs to.

He walks me to my room and removes his hand. "I am going to change. I will return in five minutes, okay?" He informs me. I nod.

"Okay." I watch him as he goes down the hallway, his cape brushing soundlessly against the carpet. It's not human at times. I enter my room. After I've showered and changed into my PJs, I wait for him to return. Barely twenty seconds after I finishing dressing, there is a knock on my door. When I open it, Bruce is standing there clad in his usual dressing gown and slippers. He's holding a couple of mugs as well. I gesture at the mugs. "What kind of tea is it?"

"Chamomile. Alfred suggests it will help you sleep tonight. I thought we could sit and talk for a while." He says entering the room and crossing immediately to the small table and armchairs set by the windows. I follow his lead before we both take a seat and a mug. I've never had chamomile before: it smells strange and I'm not all that sure until Bruce demonstrates its safety by sipping it. When he doesn't fall down dead, I sip it too. I guess it tastes okay.

"How do you feel now, Dick?" He inquires after a few minutes of silence. I take another sip and nod.

"Everything's fine now. I can't see anymore rabbits." He adopts an amused smile at my reply.

"You were seeing rabbits?"

"Yeah, they were everywhere I looked."

"It would seem Tetch is getting more imaginative with his repertoire." The man comments before finishing his tea and setting the cup down. He points at my sleeve. "How's your arm?" I rub it reflexively before shrugging.

"It stings a little. But I'll manage."

"Are you sure you're alright, Dick? You seem a little…subdued." Bruce says. He knows me too well. I'm still a little shook up by my antics earlier in the cave. I can't believe I actually cried in front of them over a few funky colours and complete lack of equilibrium. I shrug.

"I guess I'm just a little messed up from the gas. It was really scary for a while. I couldn't see or hear anything." Bruce nods in understanding and reaches forward. He places his hand over mine and squeezes it.

"It's perfectly normal to be scared when under the influence of such a powerful hallucinogen. A good night's sleep should help ease the stress you're feeling." I want him to hold me right now. I don't know why. Maybe it affected me more than usual this time or maybe it's just the drugs making me needy. If I asked him to, he would without hesitation, but I'd feel really bad about my behavior so I just nod in gratitude for his certainty. When I can't meet his gaze, his hand moves away from mine and tilts my chin up so I have to look at him. "Dick, please tell me what's wrong." Nothing I say can make him hate me: I know that. But I'm too embarrassed to articulate what's going around in my head. His eyes are definitely trying to coax some kind of response from me though. They don't try to see through me like he could do being a master detective and all, only offer the patience and understanding that I know many adults simply don't have. Silence is not awkward for him, neither is the absence of a reply in any form. He will wait as long as is needed for me to speak. He'd wait all night for it.

"Did I…" I falter. His thumb strokes my jaw. I never get over how ridiculously light his touch can be with hands that could engulf half my face. It makes me feel secure. His eyes encourage me to continue. Just in case that's not enough, he articulates the sentiment too.

"Yes?"

"Did I disappoint you tonight? I charged in there like a moron and almost got seriously hurt." He shakes his head.

"Everybody makes mistakes in the heat of the moment, Dick. Yours, although avoidable, was not a costly one. The girl was in no danger. I had the situation contained. All I wish for is that you learned a valuable lesson in planning from what occurred. You must always try to think before you act, no matter the scenario or how close the danger." He explains in such a calm, unhurried tone of voice that he could be talking about furniture polish or washing detergent instead of hostile situations and psychopaths. I feel the relief come over me in a huge wave as he exonerates me of my self-inflicted blame. "Now if you've finished your tea, you should go to bed and get some rest." He says taking his hand away. I stand up and look at my bed with little interest before turning back to Bruce.

"Is it wrong to want you to hold me for a while?" I say, unbelieving of what I have just said out loud. Bruce's expression does not change.

"No, Dick, it is not. If that is what you need in order to sleep better, then that is what I will do."

"But shouldn't I just…I don't know…man-up and ride it out?"

"It is entirely up to you, Dick. Whichever would put you in a better mood for school tomorrow is the one you should choose." It always comes back to my needs. He's never once asked me for a personal favour. He never wants me to hold him or fuss over him like I always ask him to do with me. I don't understand how he can be so selfless. I move over to where he's sitting and wait. Bruce moves his hands out of his lap to free up space. I sit in his lap, bring my knees up to my chest and rest my head against his. He closes his arms around me, wrapping one across my shoulders and the other across my back and shins. Then I just close my eyes. He squeezes me to make me believe I'm in some kind of warm, cozy cocoon and completely cut off from the rest of the world. I feel that way when I'm with him like this. The world just ceases to exist for me. The only sounds I hear are the rhythmic beat of his heart as it slowly ticks over in his chest and his equally monotonous breathing cycle. After a few minutes, we breathe as one.

I feel him shift his hand from my shoulders to my head so he can comb through my hair. He takes his time and glides over my scalp, remembering not to linger on the scars from Two-Face. He knows I hate people touching them. Long minutes pass as he repeats the combing and the squeezing with a regular pattern. After almost ten minutes I nod to signal I've gotten what I need. He gently releases the pressure until it goes completely. I open my eyes and look into his. He removes his arms to leave me perched in his lap like some post-modern sculpture. I smile and nod again.

"I made the right choice." I tell him. He smiles back.

"I'm glad. Bed now?"

"Yeah." I say shuffling off him and back on my feet.

"You can man-up here and put yourself to bed to even the playing field." He informs me without moving from his seat. I smile and nod in agreement. I crouch low on the ground, put my hands down in front of me and kick up into a handstand. I then walk on my hands to the edge of the bed before completing a one-hundred and eighty degree turn and kick backwards to belly flop onto the mattress with all the grace of a hippo. It's stupidly showy and totally unnecessary for getting into a bed, but it lets him know I'm okay if I can goof around like this after what's happened. He applauds my efforts with a few claps before getting to his feet and crossing the room. I shuffle under the covers and watch him hover over the light switch.

"Goodnight Dick. I shall see you for dinner tomorrow evening."

"Night Bruce. I'll hold you next time."


End file.
